"Skip it," ordered Hugh impatiently. "What do they say of the object of the crime?"
"'From the fact that Lord Chesby has made a life-long study of Gypsy lore and dialects,' I read on, 'the police suspect that some criminal of these nomad tribes may have slain the distinguished nobleman, either for personal gain or vengeance. Lord Chesby's nephew and heir, the Hon. Hugh James Ronald Howard Chesby, who is a Wall Street bond-broker, received a telephone message during the afternoon, notifying him of his uncle's fate and warning him that the same end would be his if he made any attempt to run down the assassins.'
"'The new Lord Chesby when interviewed at--'
"I don't like it," interrupted Hugh again, frowning, "but it will have to stand. Uncle James wanted it that way, and his word is law. It will do no good to add to the story. The police can't help us. We are playing a lone hand. All rules are off."
"A lone hand?" I repeated. "Does that mean that Nikka is out of it? Remember, we agreed after the Armistice that if we ever did forsake the fleshpots for the call of danger it would be together."
"I hate to drag him away from his concerts," answered Hugh, considering. "He's makin' pots of money. But if there's a Gypsy angle to this he'd be priceless to us."
"And he'd never forgive us if we left him out," I added.
"I suppose he wouldn't. Tell you what, we'll cable him to meet us in London at my solicitors' office. We've got a long way to go, Jack. We don't even know who we have to fight. As for the treasure-- Well, I want to talk to Bellowes first and have a look at the Charter Chest."
At Liverpool we wired to Hugh's solicitors for an appointment that afternoon and dispatched Watkins direct to Chesby with the body of his late master. We arrived at Victoria about four o'clock, and took a taxi to the offices of Courtenay, Bellowes, Manson and Courtenay in a smutted old building in Fleet Street over against the Law Courts.
Up two nights of stairs we climbed to a dirty door with the firm-name straggling across it. A clerk stepped forward as we entered, but before he could speak a brown figure shot out of an inner office, and wrapped Hugh and me in a jovial hug. It was Nikka, thinner than we remembered him, but with the same steady eyes and quiet smile. He was abashed by his own enthusiasm and started to apologize.